1961
by Kkfly546
Summary: Berlin, Germany. A barrier appeared. It separated, controlled, killed and the truth of people's stories never surface. Like the truth of a man escaping from Moscow only to find an impassable barrier. Or the tale of a soldier doing much the same only heading in the other direction. The fighting may be over, but the water hasn't cleared and every path has a way crossing. Human AU.
1. Chapter 1

_1961_

The setting.

1961. Berlin, Germany. The second great world war had just ended not with a bang, but a whisper. There is nothing but a room of sullen expressions and hushed voices as a once proud and powerful nation's fate is sealed with nothing but the marking of a pen.

Of course there was more to it than that. The men who called themselves soldier where permitted to return home, their crimes against citizens and cities forgotten, while other's where trapped in the cross fire of the after math; their stories never being told. There was a barrier that appeared. It separated. It killed. And the truth of those stories never did surface.

* * *

He didn't cry like everyone expected him to.

No, he didn't cry like everyone _wanted _him to. He didn't scream or protest or questions the words that where given to him. No tantrums or fits. There wasn't a fight or a sob or the display of distress that they wanted. The stony gaze he offered wasn't anything spectacular, and that bothered people. Was it pride that stopped him? Or simple the numbness that over took him?

It didn't matter. To him, that was it, tears would bring back nothing – tears would change no one. And maybe that's how his distance came to be. That's what got him there in the first place anyway.

"I'm sorry about this—"

The voice droned on like a nat, distant yet aggravating. But, he had to ignore the news and focus, these people have never been right anyway. They exaggerate. Why was he in the west anyway? He shouldn't have been there. It isn't his place or his people, so all of this is their fault, their mistakes.

The talking stopped, leaving silence in the wake. Then the other spoke again.

"What's waiting for you over there?" Those words rattled the air and he blinked long twice. He turned his eyes from the brightness of the winter sun beaming through the windows. Those windows obviously haven't been open since the winter months started from the way the dust collected to stale fingerprints on the glass. The office around him was warm and dusty, though, an unsettling draft itched under the wool of his uniform.

"What's keeping you here?" He answered with a question, leaning over the table and dropping his elbow on the wood with a hollow thunk. His gaze dropped to the polish on the desk and the long deep scratch drifting like a scare down the middle. Then, slowly, it worked its way back up to the blue eyes of the American soldier before him.

"I don't know, Ivan," The man pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, his southern drawl was soft, "This is just work. I'm used to work. I'd think you'd need this job as badly as I want it."

The American seemed to look down at him. It was humbling. No, _humiliating_, and he hated it. As if _that man_ was better just because his uniform was a darker navy blue. He shouldn't have to ask for permission. God, he should have been able to walk out the door and not have anyone say another word simple because that the way he worked.

"I have people waiting for me. I have a family back home. This is a sympathy, yes?" Ivan could almost feel the plead in his voice, and it made him sick. He'd rather be shot through the foot than beg. If anything, he hoped his thick Russian voice would cover the weakness.

The other sighed.

"There's no one over there, Ivan," The man gave him a look. One that almost made Ivan believe those honest cruel words. It made a rage boil in his chest and bubble in his blood.

"Tell me Alfred," He rested his head on the back of his hand, glaring into blue eyes until his own violet reflection was clear, "You had a brother, yes? He's still in America. Haven't you ever wondered about going over seas?"

Alfred mimicked him, and spoke with a stern tone, "There's no one in Moscow, Ivan."

"You don't know that."

"You can't _get _to Moscow, Ivan. I can't let you go."

Ivan narrowed his eyes and made sure his voice developed an icy edge, "You don't need me here in Germany any longer. I'm going."

Alfred jumped to standing. He looked outraged, blue eyes burning with anger, "How do you expect to get there? You get just walk past borders, Ivan! Just because you look like them and talk like them doesn't mean they'll just—just let you back! You've been here too long."

"Soldiers are free to pass," He stated.

"Not if we deny you."

Ivan narrowed his eyes.

Alfred planted a sly triumphant smile on his lips and sat back in his chair. He traced the edge of the table with his fingers. Feeling the deep artistic groves as he spoke in a cold tone, "Walk out now, and you'll no longer be a part of this. You'll have no right to pass."

With that, the Russian pushed off the table and stood. He towered over the sitting American, and it made him smirk, but only to himself. That is how things should be.

As if it was diseased, Ivan dropped the golden badge from the shoulder of his uniform on the table. He turned to leave.

Alfred jumped up yet again as the badge clanked on the polish, "The Wall!"

Those words strike like electricity, and Ivan drew a quick breath. He sneered but didn't turn around.

"Those commies put it up Ivan, I don't know what you think you're going back to, but it sure as hell isn't over there," Alfred pointed east. His voice suddenly switched to false concern and dripped sugar sweet promises, "Come on man, this sector is stronger, safer, than whatever's over _there_."—He points to the east— "Keep your job in mind," The blonde stepped out from behind his desk. Alfred reacted out to place a hand on Ivan's shoulder, but the other shivered it off.

"I hope whatever is keeping you here doesn't wither, or you may end up eating your words."

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

The shaking was violent. It over came him in painful sudden bursts and rendered his hands immobile. He tried to steady himself, focusing on the numbness of his ears, his fingers, his thoughts. The intoxicating scents of iron-blood took control of his mind and clouded his senses.

"Someone! _Help!_" He saw their lips form the words, but the voice was miles away and droned out by the rhythmic pound of a pulse in his ears. A pulse that seemed dangerously slow.

_What have I done!_ Gilbert yelled to himself, even though he knew that punishment wouldn't help now. _What am I going to do now, what have I done…._

Gilbert saw someone reach out towards him as the rolling waves of black pavement surged up to meet the side of his face. The pavement drowned his vision to black tar.

When he woke, his eyes where greeted by a vast gray roof. Hundreds of smudges and cracks decorated like art work over head.

Gilbert couldn't move, the hunger in his stomach seemed endless and drew every bit of energy he still had. His hands felt like weights, numb and limp by his side. Sighing, Gilberts dropped his head to one side and worked the blood back to the tips of his paper white fingers by fondling the sheet. A spider web resided above the stiff spring mattress he rested on. Bandages around his torso itched.

"It happened again, didn't it?" He spoke more to himself than anyone, not expecting a response.

Which is why he wasn't prepared the voice that followed, "Th-this has happened before?"

Gilbert blinked, whipping his head to the other side to see an unfamiliar face standing in the doorway. The woman had short badge hair and nervous eyes. To think of it, the bed was unfamiliar too and the walls, and the room!

His breath hitched as the German man jolted into a seating position, before feeling the world rush up to meet his spinning head yet again.

* * *

_Um, Hi._

_This is the first fic I've decided upload so if there is any type of OOC-ness or mistakes please don't hesitate to point them out. I love this pairing and I have an idea of where this story is going, but I'm open to suggestions. I'll have the next chapter up soon, I just have to type it._

_Also, because of this story I have to bend a few historical things. So I'm really really sorry for any mistake, it's not 100% accurate, but neither is Hetalia._

_Lastly, I'm not so sure about the rating, I may change it in later chapters._

_So…Any questions? Comments? Concerns? Wisecracks?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Gilbert woke to the bland gray ceiling yet again. The spider crawled and looped overhead, weaving and intricate web in a matter of seconds. He watched it dance and dive while feeling numbness swarm his head. Gilbert didn't think, he didn't bother rousing his mind from its fogy sleep, he only watched the silver threads fall flawlessly into place.

Something clicked in the distance.

The movement of his eyes felt forced, and drilled a stiff pain to the front of his brain. His tongue was swollen; his lips cracked. Gilbert twitched his fingers and felt the blood rush back to them in an instant, like hot water melting snowy crystals. The movement was distant; it struck him for the first time that he must have slept for days.

Where was he anyway?

This didn't look like his ceiling. And he couldn't feel that one spring in his mattress that bent, and jabbed into his lower back.

Another click.

Gilbert vaguely remembered leaving his flat, walking through his usually routine and stopping where he always did, but then what? Faces didn't seem to match up. Places didn't have names. Was he drunk? Drugged? Who took him home? The thought stirred his mind awake, but even that couldn't make sense of the missing memories.

Click.

It was sudden, but Gilbert's mind slammed into overdrive and drowned him in a painful onslaught of images and voices, and news he wish he'd never heard. Jumping up, he noticed the strange room around him in grater detail.

Drip.

There was a small table beside the cot-like bed and a mug of ice water a top that. Everything was simple. Dull. The lackluster metal lamp on the table was missing a shade. The exposed light bulb was grimy and gray to match the over all color of the room. A single windowsill jutted from the wall, the glass fogged over from the slow decline in temperature on the other side. He exhaled and watched the swirling mist of his breath disappear overhead.

Drip. Drip.

The clicking turned to drops and through a thin door on right in front of his bed, Gilbert noticed the source of the noise. There was a metallic sink, recently scrubbed clean, with the tap dripping in a slow disjointed rhythm. He watched it for a moment in his sitting position. Some drops following a perfect timing, while others waited back for a moment, just to irritate the German.

Throwing the covers off his legs, Gilbert twisted to step out of the bed.

He screeched in pain. Colors blurred together in his teary vision as he collapsed to the floor. Sticky, slimy, iron, blood oozed out of a wound just below his rib cage. The albino gritted his teeth and forced back the tears. He wobbled to his feet and sat on the edge of the cot.

None of this made sense.

The wound was well wrapped and cleaned, but far deeper than Gilbert wanted to admit. He swallowed a lump in his through.

It looked just like a bullet wound.

Footsteps clattered up the stairs and raced down the hall.

Gilbert removed his shaking hands from the scarlet bandages.

The door sung open.

Gilbert turned his head so quickly he stumbled off the edge of the bed. He hit the floor with a thud and struggled to his knees.

Two women stepped into the room, both wearing expressions of concern. They had matching pale skin, just a few shades darker than Gilbert's.

The taller of the two stepped over to the snowy-haired German. She had light eyes and a sweet face with short sand colored hair to frame it. Her eye met his and she spoke is a slow foreign language as she extended her hand to him.

Gilbert hissed through his teeth. He scrambled back shouting in horsed German, "Get back! Get back! Who are you! Wh-what the hell are you saying!?" His eyes flickered between the two faces, thumping in his chest sounded like a rabbits heartbeat. The struggle read as clear as day on his face.

The smaller girl scoffed.

Then, the taller turned back and stared at her, shouting back in that ugly language.

Gilbert just watched, feeling enclosed. Completely trapped, with little options of abilities to make an escape. "Where the hell am I? The German strained his posture, and demanded an answer, "Damn it, say something I can understand!"

Her attention returned to the albino. She tilted her head a little and after a moment, spoke back in awkward, broken German. "What is your name?" Her voice was sweet like honey.

Gilbert was so taken aback by this that he responded without a thought. "Gilbert." He regretted that the moment the words left his lips and longed to just reach into the air and shove each o ne back into his mouth, "Now answer a question, why don't you?"

The smaller one started to laugh. "Clam down little boy, we didn't drag you all the way here to hurt you," Her Garman was perfect, rolling each syllable with precise perfection, "That would be a waste of my time." She laughed again. He shivered.

Gilbert got a good look at her. Her pale complexion made the shade of her hair see much darker than it actually was. Blue eyes matched the ribbon in her hair and a stern expression stained her face, Gilbert couldn't help but think how beautiful she really was, but he knew better. This chick was trouble, trouble with a capital T, just from how she held a crocked smile.

He narrowed his eyes, "That didn't answer my question."

"It wasn't supposed to."

Grinding her teeth, Gilbert forced himself to standing and stumbled, slowly, to the bedside. The other, _much_ nicer looking, stranger shadowed his moments. Once Gilbert sat, she asked to change his bandages in more disjointed German.

He didn't hesitate to survey the other visitor as well. The woman tending to his wounds was much taller. Her hair was the same shade as the others, but her skin was tanner and rattled with tiny bug bites and scabs. He also noticed how her shoulders sloughed as if she was in pain.

"Berlin," The one with the blue ribbon said, "My name is Natalya and that is Yekaterina," She shrugged, "Her German isn't as strong, as you can tell."

"You can call me Katya," Yekaterina twirled her finger and added, "Turn to your left a bit." She yanked at the bandage.

Gilbert suppressed a flinch.

Natalya muttered in her native language, crossing her arms as she walked closer. Katya looked apprehensive, finishing her medical work and whispering back.

Natalya reached out, quick like a lightning strike, and grabbed the edge of the German's jaw line. His eye flew wide and the thumping of his heart fell deaf to his ears.

She turned his head back and forth while continuing to speak and look displeased, pressing her thumb harder and harder into his jawline.

Katya slapped her hand away and shouted.

Scrambling back Gilbert shouted out, "Tell me what's happening! How did I get shot! You can't really expect me to believe I'm still in Berlin, can you?"

The faucet dripped in the tense silence that followed his outburst.

"Who was it!?" He continued in rage, ignoring the sharp stabs of electric pain in his abdomen, "Which traitor ratted me out to you?" He instinctively reached for his ankle, feeling the ghost of a revolver jabbing into his bone.

Katya stepped back.

The other just snickered, "So you are a solider? And what is your purpose over here?"

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Damn, this Natalya chick was really pushing him into a corner. He could see his only escapes being closed off through the edges of his angry red vision.

He ripped through the door in an angry fit, the hinges cracked against the frame.

His office was dusty and cold – exactly how he left it, but now that he was standing there, Ivan wasn't so sure of what he needed. He stomped over to his desk, the heel of his boots clacking like thunder on polished wood floors.

Papers didn't lay scattered, but in crisp perfect piles and each pen was lined up. The only imperfection he noticed was the tiny ink stains on the surface, caused only by his sloppy signature.

Ivan ripped open the drawers. One after the other, the wood screeched and splintered against the force. He was still seeing in shades of red. He muttered.

Each drawer contained nothing but the pointless records he had kept and the few mementos he still possessed. Ivan spotted one specific one and shoved it into his pocket.

The next drawer he opened contained what he was looking for. Encased in a slim blue box, he marveled over the details of three soldier badges. Each was gold or silver with flicks of ruby red paint. Ivan snapped the box shut with a flick of his wrist and slipped it into his jacket.

The door creaked open.

His heart race sputtered almost instantly. Pretending to be gathering up papers, Ivan didn't bather looking up to identify the stranger.

"Braginsky?" Ivan didn't recognize the voice. He folded a few maps and snatched a pen. The stranger continued to talk, "The corporals wish to see you."

Ivan scoffed, "Tell them I've gone." He strolled over to the coat hanger and wrapped a scarf, snug, around his neck. The coats fit perfectly over his shoulders and his fingers slipped into think black gloves. He pulled them tight.

"Gone where, sir?"

"Out." The door slammed again.

_So so sorry this took so long, and I had it all written out and everything! No, it's just because I underestimated how much of my __**soul **__would be taken away with high school starting._

_THanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up soon-ish. Until then, Comments? Questions? Concerns? Wise-cracks?_


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